


The National Past Time

by queenallyababwa



Category: Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975), Monty Python's Spamalot
Genre: Baseball, Childhood Friends, Drunken Shenanigans, Galahad's just trying to hit a homerun in all senses of the phrase, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:13:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14443101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenallyababwa/pseuds/queenallyababwa
Summary: Never agree to be an outfielder when Arthur Pendragon is heading a baseball team.





	The National Past Time

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this YEARS AGO but a friend (eddies-spaghetti on tumblr) is debuting as Prince Herbert tonight so I thought I'd post this fun little fic before opening night to read during all that downtime between halfway through Act II and the Broadway Wedding. Break a leg!!!

"That one looks like a rabbit."

It was a perfect mid-May evening- everything Herbert could want. Warm and crisp and the whispers of summer were on every breeze that swayed the budding branches. The grass below where they lay was now not dead, a lively green hue. And the sky was filled with clouds.

"Mmm. . .  how?" Lucky lay beside him in the field, her eyes fixated on the display above them as well.

"Don't you see its ears and then it's back and then a tail?" Herbert traced his finger around the particular specimen they were observing, the cloud right above them. It was light and fluffy, looking just like a pet bunny peering up and sniffing around.

"No. I just see a dragon."

"A dragon?"

"All I see are dragons, Herbert. And maybe the occasional duck, but that's once in a blue moon."

Herbert snorted. "What a vivid imagination."

"You're telling that to someone who has minor in Creative Writing?"

"Your major was Journalism," he reminded her. "And you work at a newspaper. You tell the facts as they are I guess."

Lucky pulled herself up and readjusted the knot she made of her long brown hair before laying back down. "More or less, if you really want to know about the St. Ives' bake-sale and bazaar."

She sighed and folded her hands back behind her head. "Although, that minor has lead to some interesting things. Remember that one time we got drunk and wrote all those shitty poems?"

Dammit. Herbert didn't get drunk very often, but when he did, they were memorable times. And not for the right reasons. Once, when it had just been he and Lucky in a tiny apartment, with no money, no boyfriends, nowhere to go on a Friday night, they drank three bottles of hard lemonade each. What resulted was Herbert with bedazzled pair of boy shorts reading _babe_ across the butt, Lucky with smeared makeup from a failed attempt to try a tutorial online, and several cringe-worthy poems in notebooks on the kitchen table.

"What was that one you wrote?" Lucky asked, snickering because she knew the answer.

"Don't."

"What was it?"

"Lucky, stop."

"C'mon. It was brilliant."

"No it wasn't."

"Ode to . . . .?"

Herbert sighed. Defeated.  "Ode to Dick."

Lucky burst out laughing. Deep, real, laughing. The contagious kind that Herbert caught so easily and soon he was laughing . . . until a ball came hurtling from the sky and just so nearly missed them.

" _God_ ," Lucky huffed as she and Herbert pulled themselves up from the grass and stared at the scene in front of them. A baseball game - or rather, a baseball practice. The real game was to be played in two days, at a company picnic. And Arthur was trying to cram as much field practice time in as possible so they didn't make imbeciles of themselves in front of the competitor.

Not like it was going to help much, from what Herbert could tell.

Grumbling, Lucky sat all the way up and shouted, _"You could have killed us! Watch where you're throwing things!_ "

"Outfielders! Pay attention!" Arthur shouted back from his throne of pitcher's mound. Dennis Galahad was currently at bat and was sprinting around second base, which was also where he made it with Zoot in the outfield before the teams switched.

Arthur hadn't yelled at them.

"Could you toss me the ball?" Bedivere, stationed at third base, called to Lucky and Herbert. He was just as thrilled to be playing baseball as Lucky and Herbert but was assigned a base, so he actually had to participate.

Lucky tossed the ball towards Bedivere's general direction, but it fell about five feet short of his station at the base.  Herbert could hear him mutter "Don't worry, I got it" as he shuffled forward, took the ball, and tossed it to Arthur. Dennis had already scored his home run.

Hopefully, he wouldn't go for another one with Zoot next inning.

"I swear, it’s like gym class all over again. Please explain to me why we're here again," Lucky said with a sigh as she tried to get comfortable again after being so rudely interrupted by flying balls.

"Because Arthur needed warm bodies to fill the outfield with for the game,” Herbert said, equally sighing. “Apparently, quite a few people quit before us and we’re “valuable’ to the team.”

“Pfft, who told you that lie?”

“My boyfriend,” Herbert admitted, a little ashamed. “Well, he told me that lie from Arthur.”

“Please. We’d be more valuable to this team if we made them brownies,” Lucky said. “We just kinda. . . stand here.”

“Oh come on, out fielding has its perks,” Herbert reminded her as he looked over to Lance, second base who was squatted down, waiting to catch the next pitch, in those very tight and extremely form-fitting pair of pants. “We have quite the view.”

“Well, other than getting to see your boyfriend’s ass, what else? Arthur doesn’t think we’re capable of batting. Can’t we just sit out like Gwen?”

“If we had a legit reason,” Herbert reminded her as his glance shifted from her to the woman sitting on the bench. Like it was a throne. Un-grass-stained. Sipping lemonade from a water bottle.  “I don’t think a stomach-ache, sprained ankle, or a period is going to excuse us, unlike gym class. We would need something long-standing, like . . .

“Like being the bearer of Arthur’s offspring?” Lucky asked, smirking over at Herbert.

He laughed. “Yeah.”

“Sheesh. She’s pregnant, not made of glass,” Lucky said.

Gwen was still sitting there, reading _People_ magazine, feet propped up on a tiny, fold-out camping stool. “She seems to be enjoying the attention though,” Herbert said. Gwen took a long sip of her lemonade and tossed back her hair. “She’s not fighting him to treat her any different.”

“Whatever,” Lucky said, but then her eyes went wide. A lightbulb moment. “Hey, if I fake a pregnancy, can I get out of the game?”

“If only I get to fake break my leg,” Herbert added, laughing as Arthur *blew his whistle for the end of practice.* Yes. He had a whistle. As if the comparison to gym class could not go any further, he had to bring in a whistle.

Lucky and Herbert got up off the grass and shuffled toward the assembling group of players that all were going for the uncomfortable ritual of “team huddle”. All of those hot, sweaty, dusty people cramming close in a circle like that. . . ugh. Typically Arthur talked about their shortcomings and errors and what they needed to improve on but then tried to leave them with a pep-talk, especially with the game inching closer. It usually didn’t inspire Herbert to try playing baseball. He knew he was terrible and if he attempted, it was most likely to end up like Charlie Brown’s many, many attempts at the game.

Badly.

Better to not participate than look like an idiot.

“Good job tonight team,” Arthur addressed. Like always. Even if they were playing like shit that night. “Before we begin, does anyone have any questions?”

“Hey Arthur, if I’m pregnant, can I skip?” Lucky asked, wide-eyed, hand on the side of her stomach for dramatic effect.

“You're not pregnant, Lucky,” Arthur said dryly. “Speak a little quieter when you scheme with Herbert.” The comment was ignored and he droned on and on about something involving the game.

Lucky muttered to herself, “Dammit.”

Herbert giggled and whispered, “It was worth a shot.”

“Well, the last two people I brought to my apartment were women, so I wasn’t expecting him to buy it,” Lucky laughed in a whisper. “I swear, I’m putting vodka in a water bottle for Saturday. To make it go quicker.”

“And we’ll compose bad poetry?”

“Like always.”


End file.
